Time wore on， and the painter came again. He hadbeen far enough to the north to see the silver cascadeof the Crystal Hills， and to look over the vast round ofcloud and forest from the summit of New England’sloftiest mountain. But he did not profane that scene bythe mockery of his art. He had also lain in a canoe on thebosom of Lake George， making his soul the mirror of itsloveliness and grandeur till not a picture in the Vaticanwas more vivid than his recollection. He had gone withthe Indian hunters to Niagara， and there， again， had flunghis hopeless pencil down the precipice， feeling that hecould as soon paint the roar as aught else that goes tomake up the wondrous cataract. In truth， it was seldomhis impulse to copy natural scenery except as a frameworkfor the delineations of the human form and face instinctwith thought， passion or suffering. With store of such hisadventurous ramble had enriched him. The stern dignityof Indian chiefs， the dusky loveliness of Indian girls， thedomestic life of wigwams， the stealthy march， the battlebeneath gloomy pine trees， the frontier fortress with itsgarrison， the anomaly of the old French partisan bred incourts， but grown gray in shaggy deserts， —such werethe scenes and portraits that he had sketched. The glowof perilous moments， flashes of wild feeling， strugglesof fierce power， love， hate， grief， frenzy—in a word， allthe worn-out heart of the old earth—had been revealedto him under a new form. His portfolio was filled withgraphic illustrations of the volume of his memory whichgenius would transmute into its own substance and imbuewith immortality. He felt that the deep wisdom in his artwhich he had sought so far was found.
But amid stern or lovely nature， in the perils of theforest or its overwhelming peacefulness， still there hadbeen two phantoms， the companions of his way. Like allother men around whom an engrossing purpose wreathesitself， he was insulated from the mass of humankind. Hehad no aim， no pleasure， no sympathies， but what wereultimately connected with his art. Though gentle in mannerand upright in intent and action， he did not possess kindlyfeelings； his heart was cold： no living creature could bebrought near enough to keep him warm. For these twobeings， however， he had felt in its greatest intensity thesort of interest which always allied him to the subjects ofhis pencil. He had pried into their souls with his keenestinsight and pictured the result upon their features withhis utmost skill， so as barely to fall short of that standardwhich no genius ever reached， his own severe conception.
He had caught from the duskiness of the future—atleast， so he fancied—a fearful secret， and had obscurelyrevealed it on the portraits. So much of himself—of hisimagination and all other powers—had been lavished onthe study of Walter and Elinor that he almost regardedthem as creations of his own， like the thousands withwhich he had peopled the realms of Picture. Thereforedid they flit through the twilight of the woods， hover onthe mist of waterfalls， look forth from the mirror of thelake， nor melt away in the noontide sun. They haunted hispictorial fancy， not as mockeries of life nor pale goblinsof the dead， but in the guise of portraits， each with anunalterable expression which his magic had evoked fromthe caverns of the soul. He could not recross the Atlantictill he had again beheld the originals of those airy pictures.
“O glorious Art！” Thus mused the enthusiastic painteras he trod the street. “Thou art the image of the Creator’sown. The innumerable forms that wander in nothingnessstart into being at thy beck. The dead live again； thourecallest them to their old scenes and givest their grayshadows the lustre of a better life， at once earthly andimmortal. Thou snatchest back the fleeting moments ofhistory. With then there is no past， for at thy touch allthat is great becomes for ever present， and illustrious menlive through long ages in the visible performance of thevery deeds which made them what they are. O potent Art！
as thou bringest the faintly-revealed past to stand in thatnarrow strip of sunlight which we call ‘now，’ canst thousummon the shrouded future to meet her there？ Have Inot achieved it？ Am I not thy prophet？”